vehicles could be more easily loaded on board. But as a result there is little clearance between tail and ground, which poses a problem when landing. If you continue to apply back pressure in the flare, looking for that smooth 'grease job' landing, the underside of the tail cone can easily strike the runway. It's not a life-threatening situation, but smoke, sparks, a costly repair job, and a trip to the kick-butt room are the likely results. Yet we have a choice. We can partially flare the jet, thereby accepting a firm but safe landing, or we can gamble on the 'check-and-roll' maneuver.
This thing is not taught in the flight schools but is a recognized acceptable way in both the military and civilian world to land certain long-bodied airplanes. Instead of actually flaring the plane, we 'check' the descent with back pressure at about the point where a normal flare would be initiated. Then we release back pressure, reducing the angle of attack. If we judge it right, we'll catch the main trucks on the upswing as the nose rotates down toward the runway and maybe get that delightful grease job. It works best on airplanes in which the center of such rotation is forward of the main gear.
But the trick is to check the descent when the main wheels are about 3 feet above the pavement. That's hard to judge when one's butt is about 30 feet up and angling skyward and descending at 10 feet per second while moving ahead at 200 feet per second. If you check at 5 or 6 feet, you'll pitch down flat on the runway, picking up an excessive descent rate, thereby crunching the main gear and possibly slamming down the nose; check too low and you drive the main gear into the concrete. To hit it right, you have a decision window of about plus or minus a second.
Certain conditions can help or hinder the process. Most of us welcome a mild cross-wind. This allows us to bank into the wind during the check-and-roll maneuver, using opposite rudder to maintain runway alignment. The upwind wheels touch first, followed by the downwind wheels. The result is a cushioning effect and that oh, so wonderful feeling of a great landing. A few pilots will argue that such landings are unsafe because of an involved technicalitysomething to do with delayed spoiler activation because the aircraft's weight doesn't immediately settle on the touchdown switch. But such folks are not usually gifted enough to execute the check and roll anyway.
A Yankee named Rick Hess came down and joined us from a fighter squadron in upstate New York and proceeded to make consistently perfect landings in the C-141. Had he not been able to find the key to getting along with southerners, we would have run him out of town on a rail. A few others among us, such as Johnboy Turnage, Tom Wallace, and Rob Finch, could hit the landings with embarrassing perfection. Most of us could do it sometimes, and a few could never hit it, but we all somehow managed not to break the jets.
When a fellow pilot makes a bad landing, the code requires that you remain silent if you don't like him, since silence can be the most painful of criticisms. But if you like your flying partner, you might try to ease his chagrin with a remark or two about the various conditions that brought on his misfortune, whether or not they're relevant. Still, it is from the nonpilot crew membersthe engineers and loadsthat the crude remarks about chiropractors and mangled spinal cords will come. Mercifully, such remarks are normally made on 'hot mike,' which is a feature of the interphone system that pilots don't normally monitor.
It was on the worst of daysthose when the airplane is lightweight and the wind is calmthat I made one of my all-time worst landings. I checked too high and crunched down hard as the wings shed their lift in the rapidly decreasing airspeed. I felt that inevitable red flush and embarrassment as the jet rolled and we reconfigured the flaps for another takeoff. I was exceedingly glad that the 'Old Man' wasn't aboard.
Tech Sergeant Hank Woolsey was a flight engineer, and because of his age, which was perceived as advanced, he could and did approach the frontiers of intimidation with his practical jokes on us college boy officer pilots. He kept a 'squeaky horn,' the kind that made a preposterous rubber duck kind of noise, in his flight kit. The goal of any pilot flying with Hank was to make a landing good enough to keep the cursed squeaky horn silent. And it was quite a challenge, for Hank was an accomplished civilian pilot in his own right. He required near perfection from the more experienced pilots while being a little more tolerant with the younger guys. Still, the horn respected no boundaries of rank, age, status, or talent. All of usfrom the lowest second balloon (second lieutenant) to the heavyweights from the Head Shedwere subject to its humiliating teasing.
Relieved though I was that Hank wasn't with us, I still couldn't escape the pitiless horn that day. Just as the flaps started tracking to takeoff position, we heard it coming across the squadron frequency in our headsets, as somewhere the horn was being held next to a microphone.
OWEEHA OWEEHA OWEEHA OWEEHA
I looked over on the parallel taxiway and saw another C-141 taxiing out for takeoff, in the perfect position to observe the immense cloud of blue tire smoke drifting from the site of my bone-jarring landing.
But now the time is over for practicing landings. All continuation training requirements have been suspended. Yet somewhere out here in the tail of the storm I feel that the squeaky horn lurks, waiting for my next cruncher.
Shortly, Riyadh hands us off the Bahrain Center, and the frequency becomes jammed as dozens of aircraft compete for the controller's attention. They have trouble understanding him and ask again and again for clarification. Soon the frequency is a hopeless quagmire, as planes nearing their clearance limits become impatient and call desperately for clearances.
Then, to our surprise and delight a deep, self-confident voice with a Texas drawl interrupts the overloaded Saudis and starts methodically sorting through the communications chaos, like a firm but caring father with his brood.
'OK, EVERYBODY BE QUIET AND LISTEN. Now, who's askin' for lower?'
'MAC Mike 2427, you can expect lower in twenty miles. Break, Texaco 32 go direct Gassim and contact Riyadh 126.0.'
'MAC Victor 1834, descend now to two one zero, pilot's discretion to one eight zero. Break, MAC Alpha 4112 fly heading two four zero, intercept Golf fifty-three, expect higher at Bopan.'
'Army 26 Romeo Kilo, Roger, cleared tactical, your discretion.'
'Now, who else was callin'?'
There it is, straight ahead. At last, the azure blue waters of the Persian Gulf. The yellow-green streaks of shallow reefs contrast vividly with the aquamarine waters. This is far too beautiful and pristine looking to be the most troubled pool of water in the world. It looks so refreshing, so nonthreatening.
Lord, but we're a long way from home.
The Texan hands us over to the Dhahran 'Director,' whoever that is, who in turn passes us to the airfield control tower. We complete another litany, the approach checklist, and turn on to a twelve-mile final approach, intercepting the electronic beam known as the localizer course, which will guide us to the runway We don't need it, though; the weather is clear and we can see the vast airfield ahead. We pass over the lavish beach residence of a member of the royal family and perform the before landing checklist.
We slow down and welcome the roar of the landing gear and flaps as they are lowered into the 200-knot slipstream. It signifies that a respite is at hand. Half the long duty period is almost over. A huge seawater desalination plant passes off our right wing as I reduce power and start down the electronic glideslope. We drop low over the bleak sands and cross the runway threshold, stealing a quick glance at the man-made hills just east of the runway.
Here we see the first indication that we have arrived at the much heralded line drawn in the sand. The silhouettes of missile launchers and their attendant acquisition radars are pointed northward. They don't seem so very imposing; the launchers are simply box-shaped, housing the missiles within. But they exude a certain cockiness, an arrogance, like Davy Crockett and his Tennesseans, not really embracing the cause of Texas, just spoiling for a sporting fight. Yeah, that missile battery over there is Davy, leaning across the battlements, sighting down Old Betsy
But I figure to be back in Tennessee or somewhere like it when Santa Anna charges.
Bones mumbles something about Toto and Kansas as we roll out on the long runway, six and one-half hours after departing Spain. As we turn westward and taxi toward the military side of the field, it becomes immediately obvious that the Saudis have spared no expense on the airport. It has all the modern facilities of any in the Western world, as will almost every place we go in Saudi Arabia in the months ahead. We take care of the post-landing checklist rituals as we taxi past rows of allied fighter planes parked in concrete revetments. Several American-built A-4 fighters bear Kuwait Air Force markings, with 'Free Kuwait' painted boldly on their sides.
We are marshaled into a parking space behind another C-141 on a vast ramp teeming with activity Air Force C-5s, C-141s and C-130s are constantly streaming in and out, often waiting for a parking space to open up. Great
